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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767944">Fly Me to the Moon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadevia/pseuds/arcadevia'>arcadevia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Comfort Fics [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Keith likes to be poetic, Kissing, Lance just goes along with it, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, they’re high for like four paragraphs okay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:28:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,182</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadevia/pseuds/arcadevia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Wanna stay here forever,”</i> Lance had murmured with his lips tickling the shell of Keith’s ear, who lays between his legs where they’re both sprawled out on an endless coast of sand. Atlantic waters curl into mellow waves before sweeping onto the land’s edge and collapsing in a foamy froth. They’re distant, yet loud enough to rival the sound of Lance’s hands brushing along the fabric of Keith’s shirt and doing all he can not to cling there before August can arrive. It was July 27th, one day until his birthday, eighteen days until Keith leaves for California, and the latter is something far more apprehensive.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Comfort Fics [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fly Me to the Moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Now</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s been a minute. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, it has. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I still cross your mind? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He does, like crucifixes hanging on church walls, each passing cross looming overhead as a constant reminder on the outskirts of Lance’s mind. It doesn’t haunt him, just keeps still while Lance breathes through a thick air of uncertainty. The symbol watches him back, almost like it’s aware, but will readily disintegrate if he so much as brushed his knuckles along carved wood, dull around the edges but nonetheless enticing. Keith is untouchable, he keeps Lance at arm’s length while oblivious to his own summoning spell. He doesn’t just cross Lance’s mind, he <em> is </em> the cross, drilled there until this chapel will wither away into a ghost town and all that’s left is a memory of what could’ve been.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You don’t know the half of it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Then</em> </b>
</p><p>Even in hindsight there’s not much clarity. It’s like peering out into the wide stretch of a glittery ocean and trying to see what dwells in the water past glares of sunlight that beam too bright to know. On the surface, he recalls using the passage of Keith being a mutual friend to reach someone else. Ryan looked at him with warm hazel eyes, earthy and grounding with just enough affection for Lance to wander through that forest of attention. Those trees caught ablaze from the reflection of a campfire that summer, the one that Lance spent toeing the line of platonism and wanting to kiss that man so badly but not understanding why he just <em> couldn’t</em>.</p><p>Keith’s eyes were not earthy— <em> are </em> not earthy. Though it’s been nearly two years since Lance has found himself swallowing their attention, the sight dances through his mind in the same achingly fantasizing way fairies flutter across a twinkling meadow. It’s real though, where there's not pixie dust there’s specks of light peeking through narrow slots between long thick lashes, leaving something unlikely in their wake. Almost otherworldly. Lance is no poet and sometimes even cringes upon works drenched with the unnatural kind of romance, but he knows a galaxy when he sees one.</p><p>And the first time he saw Keith’s eyes and felt less like looking through a narrow telescope and more like he’s simply craned his neck back to look at the stars, they’re laying together. Ironically, it’s in the morning and not the late hours of the night. When Keith is sleeping, there’s just enough tension that unwinds for his taut frame to let loose and curl safely underneath the cocoon of Lance’s thick comforter. His brows are barely drawn down, lips loose and agape for the sake of inhaling reality and exhaling the ghost of his dreams with each faint breath. Some strands of bangs feather along his cheekbone before cascading onto the solid grey pillowcase. It’s a pure, unadulterated image of Keith and Lance doesn’t have it in him to reach out and touch, not yet.</p><p>He could’ve sworn it was the filter. It had to be part of the feature, where snapchat obscures your face into something either hilariously distorted or too pleasing to be true. Lance has seen how sheens of light and vibrant color glaze over his own eyes on the screen when he scrolls through each one.</p><p>But the only thing simulated on Keith’s features is a small butterfly perched on the tip of his nose. No change in face shape, no change in color, no change in the eyes that have since opened only a second before snapping the picture. Keith peers through a marbled veil of dark blue and borderline violet, like something straight out of a NASA magazine, and it’s entirely identical to what’s displayed on Lance’s phone, albeit far more clearly.</p><p>“What’re you doing?” Keith croaks. Lance can’t even be sure if the other is asking for an explanation rather than simply following a manual script. It shows in how he remains at mercy of sleepiness and doesn’t bother battling waves of his subconscious. He doesn’t seem to even spare any thought at Lance’s “Just taking a picture”, instead only hums before his lids shut and within a second his irises are no longer on display. It’s the closest Lance has been to space, so he carefully saves the image of his friend— twice for good measure, and shifts close enough to wrap his arm over Keith’s waist underneath the blanket.</p><p> </p><p>That was summer after senior year. They graduated, Keith had been his best friend for three years, which is still a shocking development to think about. And Lance wasn’t ready to let him go quite yet. Not now, or in August, or even past that— but undoubtedly they’d be miles and miles apart for the sake of taking paths that unfortunately don’t cross.</p><p>So he clings to Keith and grapples each aspect of this moment just to selfishly stow it away in the depths of his memory. The smell of breakfast his mother is cooking downstairs, the rivaling scent of Keith that’s become just as much a memory of home with every shirt he borrows, the dip between Keith’s shoulder blades under his splayed palm, Keith’s hair tickling his nose, everything.</p><p><em> Fuck</em>, Lance thinks, shutting his eyes tight and slinging his leg over for the sake of this sudden crave for the last of their closeness. <em> I’ll miss you. </em></p><p>Keith leans into it absentmindedly and his cheek brushes over the edge of Lance’s jaw before there’s a smooth press against his neck, unmistakably intentional, then settles back to even breaths like nothing happened at all.</p><p>Lance shouldn’t read into it, not when it’s too late now, but at the least he knows there’s an <em> I’ll miss you too. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Now</em> </b>
</p><p><em> “It’s lonely,” </em> Keith’s voice rasps on the other line and crackles out the speaker of Lance’s old telephone. Lance’s cell phone is broken, a clumsy mistake of both running too fast and thinking too slow. So for now, he leans against his chipped painted wall and cradles the home phone close to his ear, where Keith rumbles vague but longing statements that feel like a secret.</p><p><em> “I’ll ride my bike over there,” </em> he jokes.</p><p>
  <em> “Empty promises.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “One day.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m sick of ‘one day.’” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Dammit</em>, Lance can only think as his knuckles burn from his unrelenting grip on the telephone. It doesn’t sound real, Keith’s voice, it’s scratchy and distant like an old song’s gravelly tune on a record player. Real is with him, face to face where Keith’s voice is only raspy because they’d meet early in the mornings, where his friend’s eyes drooped even with a tired smile and Lance couldn’t shake the instinct of wanting to dip forward and nudge their noses together. And maybe let that lead to something else.</p><p>At a certain time he’d even given in to that desire, drawing in Keith’s attention with one easy <em> boop </em> before the faint blush across Keith’s pale cheeks from the cold had reddened even more, and all he could do was let out a weak breath that puffed into the chilly air between them. Lance can only vaguely recall Keith’s chapped lips lifting in a wobbly smile before a classmate hollered <em> “Somebody’s sittin’ in a tree!”</em>. Flimsy rumors hopped from one student to the next from then on: <em> “Oh yeah, they’re dating”</em>, <em> “I wouldn’t try, he’s got a thing for McClain”</em>, <em> “Haven’t they been a thing for months now?”</em>.</p><p>Lance didn’t debunk any of them, neither did Keith, and they swam through their tapering time in high school with something they were too afraid to call romance.</p><p><em> “We’ll get there,” </em> Lance whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Keith ❤️</p><p>
  <b>2:16 AM</b>
</p><p>I’m in love with you.</p><p>
  <b>10:46 AM</b>
</p><p>You okay?</p><p>Wanna call?</p><p>Should I?</p><p>Then what happens?</p><p>I’ll say it back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Then</em> </b>
</p><p><em> “Wanna stay here forever,” </em> Lance had murmured with his lips tickling the shell of Keith’s ear, who lays between his legs where they’re both sprawled out on an endless coast of sand. Atlantic waters curl into mellow waves before sweeping onto the land’s edge and collapsing in a foamy froth. They’re distant, yet loud enough to rival the sound of Lance’s hands brushing along the fabric of Keith’s shirt and doing all he can not to cling there before August can arrive. It was July 27th, one day until his birthday, eighteen days until Keith leaves for California, and the latter is something far more apprehensive.</p><p>What wouldn’t he give for them to abandon their parting endeavors in Arizona and California, just to make the stretching horizon of Veradero their home. In the moonlight— <em> for once</em>, he sees clarity for what could’ve been. In the moonlight, this is what they could be.</p><p>Keith wordlessly tangles their fingers together and slumps further into Lance with a quiet sigh. It’s hot out, Keith’s hair tickles his shoulders and the sand grinds uncomfortably between his toes but this is all he has.</p><p><em> I’ll miss you, </em> he delivers through a subtle kiss against the other’s neck, just like the favor he’d received that one morning. It’s sweet in the way Lance still couldn’t lick the taste of mango off his lips, and salty against Keith’s sea-damp skin.</p><p>In the moonlight, their hands do not untangle.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Now</em> </b>
</p><p><em> “What do you see?” </em> Keith asks over the phone a few seconds after Lance shuts the door behind him and steps to the center of his driveway.</p><p>He takes his time, and a hit too, the concentrated sensation striking his lungs and leaving his chest tingly enough to have to stave off a fit of coughs. It burns for the best, he’s high after all and while Keith sees pages of poetry in the moon, he can’t help chucking out his own terribly opposite take:</p><p> </p><p>“Cheese.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Pffh—</em> <em>Lance</em>,” Keith sputters through small giggles, “be real with me.” Yeah, yeah, lucky duck gets no repercussions for shamelessly smoking a joint over there though. Too bad Lance hasn’t seen those red rimmed eyes since junior year. Keith’s a bit <em>friendly</em> when he’s stoned, and Lance can so much as breath before the boy is thrown into a fit of laughter.</p><p>“Anything for you, <em> handsome</em>.” And Lance? He’s just as friendly, sober or not.</p><p>Maybe it’s the haze that crawls around the corners of his brain, the smoke he inhaled that didn’t leave with the rest of a puff, that makes him curiously wonder why something so massive and ominous as the moon is romanticized so fondly.</p><p>It’s why when he says <em> “I’d move to the moon if it meant I could be with you,” </em> he’s admitting to something terrifying, an adventure that would shake him to wits end because space is so fucking <em> lonely </em>. But Keith would be there.</p><p>Keith sniffs, whether from emotion or just a rattling hit— Lance isn’t sure. “I would too.”</p><p>The glowing light that halos around their great big mystery of a moon turns wobbly. Unshed tears ripple it’s image like something in the water, and he wonders if when Keith looks up too, the sight is all the same.</p><p>There’s a way around this, not everything has to be frightening in the name of love.</p><p> </p><p>Keith ❤️</p><p>
  <b>2:16 AM</b>
</p><p>Fuck the moon. I’m going to California.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Then</em> </b>
</p><p>“This is unfair,” Lance grumbles to himself, yet Keith seems to hear him nonetheless and pushes a stack of books over from his side, creating a small slot in the shelf where Lance’s grumpy pout can directly meet Keith’s skeptical arched brow.</p><p>“It’s my <em> birth mom</em>,” Keith responds for the umpteenth time, less out of irritability and more out of routine. “You would do the same.”</p><p>He would, and it’s not a painful truth until it’s used against him. So he hooks his pointy chin on the glossy bookshelf, between his hands resting on either side of the ledge, like a puppy pulling all the stops for a treat. Except he’s the puppy, and the treat is an impossible chance of his best friend staying home for stupid movie marathons over the opportunity of meeting biological family for the first time. Easy choice, right?</p><p>“Please,” he says through a pathetic whimper.</p><p>Keith mimics his stance, gazing at him from under tufts of dark hair and the shadow of the shelf. The corners of his mouth waver, a tell that leads Lance to just <em> know </em> this is classic mockery. From the way he whines back “<em>No</em>” and those twitching lips readily spew into stifled laughter when Lance barrels a hand through just to shove his taunting face away.</p><p>Although the library is relatively quiet, Lance’s outrageously loud thoughts clatter around his subconscious so bold and plain like lightning strikes in the daytime. Keith is going to leave for real soon, he doesn’t want to be forgotten.</p><p>“Remember when I had that crush on Ryan?” he blurts while his fingers tentatively pluck at the spine of a vibrantly colored mystery novel.</p><p>Keith’s eyes are on him, Lance doesn’t doubt it even when he’s turned away. There’s the attention of an entire solar system lined up and beaming right at the spot where he does all he can not to squirm in place. It’s not poetry, it’s science. NASA would know.</p><p>“Yeah uh, I was there for most of it, wasn’t I?” Keith says carefully, though Lance knows he’s trying his best not to sound tense. For some reason he should know why that is; for some reason he doesn’t have the time to figure it out quite yet.</p><p> </p><p>“I should’ve spent that time with you when I had the chance.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know there’s more to his tone until Keith looks up with something between calm and shock, like this was to be expected and Lance was just a ticking bomb swelling into a mediocre, borderline confession. There’s no time to waste sorting through <em> why </em> he sounded so regretful, so sidetracked with infatuation for something else— <em> someone </em> else. Besides, as lonely as space is, he’s always been weirdly fond of what terrifies him. Like abandoning earth, or shuffling through the shallow waters of falling in love with his best friend.</p><p> </p><p>It’s mutually accepted.</p><p> </p><p>Text in varying fonts and sizes and boldness whizz past his vision while he darts toward the end of the aisle; in between each open slot he sees Keith following along. Pages and pages of packed stories waiting to be caressed and revealed under a gentle gaze, yet the only one Lance worries for is his own, and he’s impatient enough to skip the formalities and snatch it up.</p><p>There’s a split second of apprehension in which Lance’s chest quakes and the space between them feels as thick as concrete, even when the bookshelf comes to an end and there’s just an empty valley to cross. He crumbles it all the same, blindly soldiering through that typical swarm of butterflies that either make or break a moment, though he doesn’t back down this time.</p><p>Keith’s lips taste like cherry, thanks to him. The chapstick was both a gift and a favor, seeing as those particular cracked lips used to bother him the most. He’s never been sure why up until now.</p><p>Something about kissing his best friend days before the boy is meant to leave and months after they <em> should’ve </em> done this seems pretty on brand for them. It still makes him jolt though, even after clumsily initiating it because Keith’s <em> actually </em> following in tow. He’s quick to latch onto Lance’s hands, resting along either side of his jaw, and stack their lips less like books and more like god knows what because he’s kissing <em> Keith </em> right now.</p><p>It’s… as modest as a library could call for. One kiss bleeds into another and so on, until Keith is breathing a bit too loud and Lance swipes his tongue at the same time a not-so-pleased employee starts heading toward them with a condemning stare.</p><p>They’re kicked out. With the taste of cherry chapstick on his tongue and Keith’s blush rivaling the shade of his own spent lips.</p><p>But that was that and Keith was leaving.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Now</em> </b>
</p><p>Though it’s only one of few times he’s visited, California has Lance strolling around as if the place was made of his own elements. From the sweltering hot June sun to asphalt reflecting sheening heat as if it could sweat like each passerby. It’s tolerable, but he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a sting on his cheeks from an already blooming burn.</p><p>The diner they plan to meet at is fairly packed, and a friendly chime barely rings out amongst a wave of chattering that meets Lance’s ears upon arrival.</p><p>It’s easy to spot Keith from the corner of his vision. His frame slouches with little expectancy in his gaze, just reverently watching the bustling town on the other side of his window. His hair is longer, with bangs that sweep along his temples more than they used to obscure his forehead (and hilariously, his vision).</p><p>Two years of meetup plans falling out, from sudden emergencies to slacking on money to any kind of excuse their damned fate felt like dealing out. It makes the journey feel unreal. Not like a fairy tale, but still, something of the fictional sort.</p><p>And <em> whoa </em> two years put some mass on Keith too, from the way his shirt sleeves fit snug over his biceps, to where fabric is almost pulled taut across his chest when he straightens at the sight of Lance’s hesitant figure. He’s aged, <em> they’ve </em>aged, and catching it abruptly makes his heart ache a little because had they been together all this time, he would’ve barely noticed. Pixelated and laggy video calls are one thing, but this? It’s another, one that Lance would rather get used to.</p><p>Nonetheless he carries on with a bitten lip to refrain from grinning at Keith’s crooked smile. He runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat and probably ruined by the occasional baked breeze from his way to the entrance just moments before. It’s fine though, they’ll be just as unkempt later today once Keith gives him a long awaited campus tour before heading back to his place. Hopefully Lance can kiss him senseless by then, though he <em> is </em>living with his mother now… </p><p>Keith watches with an air of encouragement as Lance finally slumps into the seat across from him and deems this booth as their first place of encounter. He tucks his hair behind his ear, Lance licks his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s been a minute,” Keith says in such a knowing tone.</p><p> </p><p>And Lance knows a hint when he sees one, does all he can to refrain from huffing and puffing to shoot an exasperated <em> “We’re not in a freakin’ movie”</em>. But if there’s one unlikely thing he knows about his friend, it’s that manual scripts are something to adore and perhaps cliches can occasionally be worth living, regardless of the bitter parts of their sweetness.</p><p>So he breathes out a weak laugh, adds an eye roll just to be sure, and meets Keith’s gaze with practiced composure just to say—</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it has.”</p><p> </p><p>All without flying to the moon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>exclusive fics on <a href="https://instagram.com/arcadevia?igshid=1bqu2rmbht9gq">my instagram</a></p><p>Drop a kudos/comment ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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